Found
by Angelfirenze
Summary: “Who are you?” He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. “I don’t know,” I say, my throat tight and my palms slick. House, M.D. Secondary universe: 'America' by E.R. Frank
1. One America

**Found**

_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is compounded with each passing week. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

**ANs: **I decided to add the Bakers into the mix on a whim. I thought it'd be interesting, given what happens in the movie. Besides, it amuses me to think of House having lots of far younger cousins. He'd be the Baker dozen's king. It's also ironic, given the fact that Blythe House was played by Diane Baker. And I've decided that House's parents don't come to visit until a few hours later; after Chase has already informed Carnell's dad that he's going to die.

AMERICA - ONE

He's got these blue eyes. Bright, like the glaciers in a movie about Antarctica or some damned where. His coat's all rumpled and not white like most of the other guys around here. Not like Dr. B. It's just regular, like it goes to a suit, but he's got on jeans instead. I look at the paper in my hand, just to make sure I'm at the right spot and not about to walk up on some crazy old man. But the building we're in is stark and shiny. White. Like Everest, almost, except for all the people. It's like Ridgeway, all the nurses in their scrubs and the doctors in their coats and the patients in their gowns. But this one's different. He's got on his jeans and sneakers--bright and shiny Nikes that I can see from over here, reflecting the light from the fluorescents in the ceiling like tiny little mirrors. He frowns, bites something at one of the nurses--who bites right the fuck back--and looks at the chart she's given him.

"You," he goes, looking at me and I can see those eyes that don't look like mine except they do because they're full of hurt and I don't think he even knows how much and it's like a jolt from my head down to the bottoms of my feet but I ignore it and glance at the big sign over the desk that goes CLINIC in these big letters. White. Almost everything in here is white, except for the walls. They're either painted or glass, burnished and so clear you could see through the whole damned building in some parts, I bet.

"Hey! Space cadet!" He goes and I fall back down to where he's glaring at me. Looking at me like I'm stomping all over those feet of his, messing up his shoes. Making the shine dull. He's got a cane, I see, and I stand and walk, watching as his scowl gets so deep and the anger in his eyes gets them a whole shade darker. Now they're like the sky outside when the sun goes behind a cloud.

Hidden.

He limps in behind me and shuts the door and it clicks loud while I sit on the table and he eases his skinny ass down on the stool in the corner, like it hurts just to think.

"America Harper," he reads, glancing at my chart. "Sore throat."

He stares at me, flat, like I'm wasting his fucking time.

I shrug and he rolls his eyes, taking out a set of those latex gloves and snapping them on and pulling one of those big wooden popsicle sticks from a glass container on the counter. "Say 'ah,'" he goes and I do. He looks for a second before backing away and pulling the stethoscope from around his neck.

"Get out," he goes and I grip the table, a weird kind of shiver ripping through me and it's kind of nice because it's cold in this place and the cold is good and clear and clean.

"I can't," I go, clearing my throat, my eyes on my shoes. I think about the paper Dr. B. gave me, crumpled in the front pocket of my hooded sweatshirt that Liza got me for Christmas and I want to run and want to stay all at the same time.

"Well, I guess you have a problem, then, kid, because there's nothing wrong with you--"

He's wrong.

He's right.

He's somewhere in the middle and the same way so he can't really talk, but it's stupid to think about because right now it doesn't fucking matter.

So I say the only thing I can think of that might make him listen. Dr. B. told me all he could find and that's all I can use. I can't go and he can't leave.

"New York. The Bowery. 1985."

He was up, halfway to the door, his right hand gripping that cane like it was all that was keeping him from falling away. He limps real hard so that might be true.

He turns around, real slow, in shifts, with those Nikes making little squeaks on the linoleum and his breath getting slower and deeper and quieter every second.

"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face.

"I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick. I wipe them on my pants, thinking of my light brown skin and green eyes. My not-quite straight hair and my skinny nose and wide lips and his not-quite straight hair and the bright blue eyes and the dark circles I can see under those eyes and the tightness in the skin around his mouth. Like he's real close to saying to hell with it and falling into a dark heaviness that's been calling to him for a real long, long time.

"You don't know," he goes, quiet. Soft. Those eyes aren't so hard anymore. They're sleepy and softer but still angrier than anything.

I sigh and run my hand through my hair, wishing for the first time in forever that I had my matches and my shoelaces, but I smash it down and take a breath.

"America," I say, real calm, like I'm not falling apart inside. "And you're Dr. Gregory House. You met...my biological mother...when you were in New York in 1985. You didn't stick around, but that's okay because you didn't know and, anyway, she didn't stick around either. She--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dr. House goes, putting up a hand. "Look, kid--" He glances at his watch and mutters something about lunch and Wilson and General Hospital. "Just...wait a minute. Just shut up for a second. I'll be right back."

"You're going to run an _errand_?" I ask and my voice is dark and bitter, but I don't mean it. I don't want to mean it.

Dr. House stares. "Is that what she used to tell you?" And he's frowning again. He sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a white pad with black lines and his name's at the top. _Dr. Gregory House_, small, black, and neat. He scribbles some nonsense on it before ripping off the sheet and giving it to me. "Come with me. My shift is over in..." he stares at his watch, counting off the seconds. "Three, two--let's go, kid."

So we go.

...TBC...


	2. Two

**Found**

_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is compounded with each passing Tuesday. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

TWO

He's limping fast down the hall now and I follow and it's not too hard, but he's quicker than I thought he'd be. But twice he's stopped and rubbed that leg, pressing and pushing like there's something under the skin that's trying to break out and he's got to keep it in.

"What's wrong with your leg, man," I went the first time and at first he glared at me, but then he breathed deep and big and went, "Infarction," his voice quiet and tired.

His right hand twitches every once in a while and reaches up toward his pocket but at the last second he drops it back and grips the cane instead. There's a big shiny line across that palm in the shape of the handle of the cane. There's something in that pocket and he wants it bad but won't let himself have it. Like when Mrs. Harper used to make me wait until everyone had arrived to let me open my birthday presents. I reach up, too, and rub the black ring on the thin chain around my neck, remembering. It's not so bad to remember anymore. It's not so bad to think.

We get down the hall to a desk with PHARMACY spelled out over it in those same big white letters and he leans on the counter, drumming his fingers until the guy behind it--in another white coat except this time with short sleeves that don't cover up the shirt underneath--comes out and rolls his eyes.

"What'll it be, Dr. House," the man goes, his voice all sarcastic and annoyed. Like he's got something better to do, too.

Dr. House turns to me and motions toward the other man. "Give him the slip." I hand him the paper and he reads it.

Sighing heavily, the pharmacist--who Dr. House makes faces at as soon as his back's turned and keeps doing when the guy turns back around--slaps a small bottle of cherry-flavored Cloraseptic throat spray on the counter and I pick it up.

Dr. House motions for me to put it down, scowling across the counter. "No, no, no. You gave him that disgusting fake cherry crap. Give him the cool mint one. Come on, man, be charitable for God's sake!"

"Bite me," the pharmacist snaps but he swaps the red bottle for a blue one and Dr. House sticks his tongue out at him. Then he turns to me and smirks because I'm so surprised to see a doctor and a pharmacist making faces at each other that I don't even realize when another doctor with fluffy brown hair and a disapproving look on his face that makes me think of Mrs. Harper frowning and turning her back walks up.

"House," he goes, sighing and putting his hands on his hips, looking at Dr. House before glancing at the other guy. "You _do _realize it's very easy for the pharmacist to slip cyanide in your next Vicodin prescription, don't you?"

The pharmacist smiles wide and you know that's exactly what he dreams of doing. But Dr. House just snorts and goes, "Jimmy, you _do_ _realize_ that if I survive, I'll implicate you as an accomplice since you so clearly betrayed me by giving him the idea in the first place, don't you?"

Jimmy rolls his eyes.

Then Dr. House looks at me and goes, "Come on." And we start walking and the other doctor--Jimmy--looks at me with suspicion, but falls in step beside Dr. House and we walk to the cafeteria down at the other end of the hall.

"You mean you're not going to steal my lunch today?" Jimmy asks, like he already knows who I am and this is just regular. He's raising an eyebrow and pushing the doors open so we can walk through.

"Nope. My treat."

He smiles a little when Jimmy's mouth drops open.


	3. Three

**Found**

_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is compounded with each passing Tuesday. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

THREE

"So you just met this patient in the clinic and decided to treat him to lunch?" Jimmy asks, looking at me like I'm hiding something from him and I am, but it's none of his business so it doesn't matter.

"Yep."

"You _do_ realize--"

"That's the second time you've started a sentence with those words in the last fifteen minutes, Wilson. Time to get a thesaurus."

Jimmy Wilson rolls his eyes and starts over again. "You don't treat patients to lunch, House. You don't see them for any longer than you have to. You barely do that."

"So I can't do anything nice?"

"No," Jimmy deadpans and then he looks at me.

"What, do you have pictures of him rescuing a puppy--no, that doesn't make sense. He doesn't care about puppies. That would mean _giving a damn _and he's incapable of that, or so he says."

Dr. House rolls his eyes and stabs the baked potato on his plate. "_Drop it_, Jimmy," he pleads, but either Jimmy's deaf or just doesn't care.

"Seriously, who is he?"

"Damn it, Wilson, shut up about it. It doesn't matter who he is, just let it go."

Then the scowl is back on his face and he stabs the potato a few more times before pushing his plate away and folding his arms. He looks at me staring at him and frowns even more.

"Are you going to finish eating or what?" Dr. House asks, staring at the pile of carrots on my plate. The meatloaf and the mashed potatoes are gone. Only the carrots are left.

"I am finished," I go and he gives me a flat stare.

"Why did you get carrots if you didn't plan on eating them?"

"I was going to," I say before I can stop it. I push them around my plate.

_Dr. B goes every time I scrape a carrot or cut it or chop it, it can be me telling Browning how mad I am for him being real good to me and then turning it all ugly. Dr. B. goes every time I scrape a carrot or cut it or chop it, it can be me telling God or Mrs. Harper or even Browning I'm real sorry I stole his life away like that. Dr. B. goes every time I scrape a carrot or cut it or chop it, it can be me telling myself I'm done with all the bad, I am over all the bad, I am not all the bad._

_I hate you, motherfucker. Motherfucker. I hate you._

_I'm sorry. I am real, real, _real _sorry._

_I. Am. Not. Bad._

He never said what to do about eating the goddamned things.

"Then what's the problem?" Jimmy asks with his voice all soft and concerned. Like I'm dying or something. "Are they overcooked? You can take them back and they'll give you some more."

"No." But I don't say anymore.

Dr. House makes a face like he doesn't believe what he's seeing. "What are you, five?"

Jimmy glares at him and goes, "I'd hardly think _you_ can talk, House."

"Fine," Dr. House goes, sliding his chair back and getting slowly to his feet. "He's wasting Cuddy's precious food, not mine. Come on, kid. We don't have all day."

Then he takes his tray and goes to dump his food.

Jimmy sighs and looks at me. "Ignore him. He's just on edge because his parents will be visiting later."

I give him a look. "Somehow I don't think he'd be real happy you told me that."

"I know. Too late."

I can't believe him. "Some friend you are, going around telling his personal business to all everybody. Why does he tell your gossiping ass anything?"

Jimmy blinks, and he sort of reminds me of Ernie, the way he's nice to Dr. House when everyone else can't stand him. Then Jimmy smiles a little and he surprises me because I thought he'd get angry like Dr. House.

"Because he needs to."


	4. Four

**Found**

_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is compounded with each passing Tuesday. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

FOUR

I'm sitting in Dr. House's conference room where he left me when three people older than me but not by much come back. They're wearing white coats like Jimmy, only theirs don't have their names on them. Dr. House told me he was going to talk to somebody named Dr. Cuddy. He said I'll notice her right away.

"She's anal with funbags out to here," he went, holding his hand about half a foot from his chest. "Ordering everyone around. Hot as hell. You can't miss her. Wicked Witch."

The smirk on his face and the look in his eye when he mentioned her wasn't like the one he gave the pharmacist. He likes this Dr. Cuddy.

"She's your boss?" I asked and he shook his head a little bit.

"She's my mistress." He got this look on his face like some pervert on the street.

"Dude, you're nasty," I told him, but I was trying not to laugh.

"I am _not_," he said, pretending like he was hurt, but he was smiling as he trailed a pretend tear down his cheek.

"Yes, you are. And hey, dude, I don't want to talk about some chick you want to fuck. That's wrong. I don't want to think about that shit."

"I do apologize," Dr. House said, with this fake sorry look on his face. "I've clearly offended your sensibilities, my dear young man."

I made a face. "You don't apologize for shit. Eurgh. Go--work or something. You have a damned job. Why don't you go do it?"

"My mother always told me I had no manners. I was trying to work on them a bit."

"Yeah right. She'll be able to tell you haven't been practicing. Moms are good with that shit."

He sighed, then, and nodded. "Yeah. I never could lie to her."

I couldn't lie to Mrs. Harper either. She always knew.

"Look," he went, sighing and gesturing around at the room. "Just don't make a mess. You finish something, you throw the box away. I assume you know how to do that."

I was tempted to give him the finger, but I didn't. "Why? It looks like you like it when this Cuddy chick gets on your case."

He smirked, then. "Only when I'm the one getting me in trouble. I don't need anybody doing it for me. You can amuse yourself, I'll assume."

"Yeah, yeah," I went and he left. He was gone for a long while--I don't know exactly how long--when the young ones wandered in, talking all this medical shit that I can't understand. They don't look happy.

"The bowel perforations won't stop unless we can get his immune system stabilized," the girl goes and the blond guy dressed in scrubs under his white coat flops down into his chair and looks at her.

"We can't do a bone marrow transplant _because _of the perforations," he goes in a British accent or something. "Every time we try to operate, he'll hemorrhage. His white count's in the toilet. He can't _tolerate_ any more operations. I've told his father. It's over."

The black one, though--the one with a serious look on his face, like he's some hall monitor who's caught me out after the bell's rung--he's staring at me. The other two were so busy jabbering about this patient, they didn't even notice me.

"May I help you?" he asks, like he's sure I'll jump up and run out of here.

"Nope," I just say and go back to staring at the ceiling. There's no paint stripes on this ceiling. No shadows or little flicks that look like frosting. It's all smooth and orange everywhere.

"Did you need help?" the girl goes, her face all uneasy. The British-sounding dude's just watching, with an intrigued look on his face. He's pushed his floppy hair back and has forgotten his hands are on his head.

"Nope," I say again, and they all keep staring at me. "You were talking about some patient. He's dying, obviously." I go back to staring at the ceiling, but they don't start talking again. I knew they wouldn't. Damn it. I sit up again, drumming my fingers on the table and waiting.

Waiting.

"Who are you?" the girl asks and I smile because I knew she would. She's probably the one Jimmy blabs all of Dr. House's personal business to. Asshole.

"Nobody," I say and go back to watching the ceiling.

"Look," the black dude goes, his face even more serious. I didn't think he could do it, but he surprised me. "If you don't need help and you don't have any business here…"

"He has business here," Dr. House snaps, limping back in and stopping to lean against the wall. "It just so happens that it has nothing to do with you. Lucky him. Go. Get out. The kid's going to die, there's nothing you can do for him."

The other three doctors stare at me for a little bit more of a while.

"What the fuck part of 'has nothing to do with you' don't any of you idiots get?" I ask, annoyed because they think I'm some interesting painting in a museum or some damned thing.

The girl flinches a bit, but the two guys get the point and stop watching me. They go back to their business and Dr. House and I go back to ours.


	5. Five

**Found**

_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is compounded with each passing Tuesday. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

FIVE

"It's good to see you, too," Dr. House goes and gives his mom a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, don't lie, Greg," his mom goes because moms are good at knowing when their kids are lying. Dr. House told me his dad should have been taking his mom to Vegas, not the Louvre. He says she would have made a fucking killing at the poker tables. So I pulled out my cards and we played a couple of games of War. He knew the rules already and I didn't have to explain, like with B. That was nice.

His dad stands real straight, like someone's put invisible books on his head. His hair is grey and looks like someone plastered it to his forehead with shellac or some damned thing.

They go on about some dinner that was supposed to be them and Dr. House and Dr. Cameron and Dr. Cuddy and Jimmy. But House doesn't want to go and you can tell just by looking at him that he'd rather let someone kick him in the leg than be in the same room with his dad for hours on end voluntarily.

"Plans have been made--Wilson made 'em," Dr. House's dad goes and Dr. House gets this look on his face like, _And I'll be stabbing him later_.

Heh.

"I told him to cancel," Dr. House goes, reminding him about his patient and how the kid's going to be dead, probably, by morning.

His parents talk him into getting a sandwich in the cafeteria downstairs. And then his mom sees me and she looks back at Dr. House like she wants him to talk about me.

"That's America," Dr. House goes, but he doesn't say anything else. Or I don't hear it. I'm too busy looking at his dad. His dad with the dark hair and his dark green eyes with tiny little yellow flicks that you can barely see, just like mine.

_Real meaning is in the smaller things._

I've never met anybody with eyes like mine before. His mom's got hazel eyes. And his are blue. We're all different. Except Dr. House's dad and me.

"It's very nice to meet you, young man," his mom goes and she reaches out to shake my hand and I do and it's nice and warm and reminds me of Mrs. Harper's warm hand and her little smile that she would get when we talked.

"It's nice to meet you, too," I say because I like her and Dr. House gets this little look in his eyes like he knew I'd like his mom. He said she was real good to him, always, even when she was mad at him for being a smartass. He said she loves him and I don't think he really even knows why.

But I see her now, with him, and I know why because they know things that his dad doesn't. They know things his dad can't know because he wasn't there.

I turn and take a breath because his dad has his hand out for me to shake and I do and it's firm and strong, like that straight ass backbone of his.

"You're one of Greg's students?" Dr. House's dad asks and I shake my head no.

"Then who are you?" he asks, but Dr. House cuts in, saying, "It's not important. He's a patient I had earlier in the clinic. His name's America, like I said."

"America?" Dr. House's dad asks, and I can tell he likes my name. "Your momma in the service, boy?"

I almost snort, knowing damned well the only _service_ she probably ever provided had nothing to do with any patriotism. I shake my head, 'no.'

"I don't know why she named me that. I haven't seen her since about a minute when I was five, but if you ever meet her, you can ask her for us both."

"You don't know where your mother is?" Dr. House's mom asks and I can see him grimace and run a hand through his hair behind her.

"My real mom's dead," I say, fingering the ring around my neck. "She was real, real good to me."

"Your adoptive mother," Dr. House's dad goes and I nod, remembering my hide and seek scream, my getting found scream.

Angels that kneel and sit and stand and fly, protecting the whole house like a real pretty army. I remember B.'s sand angels on his shelf with the whole sand universe sitting right there.

"What about your father?" Dr. House's dad asks, and I frown because, damn, this guy thinks nothing of asking all these questions.

"What about _your_ father?" I ask, frowning more because he's making me real tired with all this shit.

"My father was a member of the United States Marine Corps," Dr. House's father goes, smiling proudly and puffing himself up like one of those little birds with the orange and yellow beaks and the name like cereal.

"You're obviously quite proud," I go and he frowns, looking at Dr. House.

"You two must get along real well."

Dr. House shrugs, and I do, too, because I've only known him for a few hours inside of today. How the hell do I really know what he's like?

"Well, we were getting ready to go to dinner, but apparently, Gregory--"

And Dr. House flinches at the sound of his full name and I find myself frowning a little bit.

"--has something better to do."

"John," Dr. House's mother goes, placing a hand on his arm and gripping a little. "Leave him alone. He's losing a patient."

"Like he gives a damn," John presses and Greg lets himself fall back down into his desk chair, letting his head drop and pushing his hands through his hair. "The only reason he cares is 'cause he hates losing."

"He was a kid," Dr. House goes, his face hidden now inside those big hands of his--they're like his dad's, I see. Like mine, only pinker. "He was twenty-two years old. He was graduating from _this school,_ _this_ week. He was supposed to be getting his pictures taken and instead he's lying in the ICU downstairs, waiting to die. Waiting for his father to finish treatment for radiation poisoning, himself, so that his family can bury him. Because some idiot dumped a radioactive weight into his father's scrap metal yard, this kid will never walk out of here again. Is that a good enough description for you, or do I need to elaborate on his father, too? I hate losing. Losing means people die. No, I don't want to eat, but I probably should. He should, too."

He gestures at me. I was about to say I'm not hungry, but now I can't. That kid was only two years older than me and he's about to be dead. I could have died. I should have died. I _tried_ to die, but it didn't work.

John blinks and stares at Dr. House for a little bit of a second. "You're skinny as hell, Greg," he goes, frowning and ignoring everything that Dr. House just said. "And we haven't seen you in almost a year."

"I know," Dr. House goes, dragging his hands away and letting them fall on his desk with a thud. "I'd ask how Denver was, but I've been there. I'll skip to Chicago even though I've been there, too."

"We haven't gone yet," Dr. House's mom goes, beginning to play with his hair. Apparently, she does this a lot because he just sits back and lets her for a while before shrugging her off, which is different from everything else I've seen. Nobody else touches him. "We were waiting until we got back from Europe."

"So you could spoil them senseless."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"You've got twelve kids to buy for, you know."

"Yes, well. Tom says that Sarah and the rest of the kids have been asking about you."

Dr. House snorts and sinks down in his chair a little more. "They always do."

"They miss their king."

"They're my cousins, not my subjects."

"Monkeys see, monkeys do," John goes, rolling his eyes.

John glances at me again, where I am sitting now in Dr. House's big, long weird-looking recliner. "You takin' 'im home with you or somethin'? He's a kid, not a puppy."

"All the more reason to clean up his messes. Piles of human feces aren't all that attractive. Plus, they smell really bad and are crawling with all sorts of nasty bacteria."

Such a lovely image.

John sighs and rolls his eyes again, and I think maybe he might finally give up at least for the moment. "Well, if you're not comin' to dinner, at least come get somethin' from the cafeteria."

"We'll buy you something to eat," Dr. House's mom reminds him, smiling and fluffing his hair one last time.

Dr. House sighs and looks at me. "You hungry?"

I'm not but I nod anyway.

"Don't get any carrots this time. My dad _will_ make you eat them."

And then we go.


	6. Six

**Found**

_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is compounded with each passing Tuesday. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

SIX

I see Dr. Cameron watching us eat through the doorway to the cafeteria, but no one else does because Dr. House's parents are talking to him and he's so busy being miserable and awkward that he doesn't even see her stalking him. So I don't say anything.

"So, besides work, what'cha been up to?" Dr. House's dad asks and he mumbles something about 'not much.'

"You always say that--_not much_."

"That's always the answer," Dr. House goes and then he makes a face at me when I snicker at him.

"Don't make faces, Greg," Dr. House's mom goes in that mom way where they make you watch your manners. "And leave him alone, John," she adds, touching Dr. House's dad's left arm with the bigger military tattoo on it.

Dr. House hasn't eaten his sandwich. He tells me he likes them cold.

"Got a new motorcycle," Dr. House goes, glancing up from the table at his mom. "You might have seen it out front. It's orange with a gigantic scrape. Looks like crap, but it drives great."

"Oh, you'll be careful, won't you?" Dr. House's mom goes, worrying in that way that moms do and Dr. House nods and goes, 'yeah' real quiet.

"It's not the one in the handicapped space, is it?" Dr. House's dad asks, leaning forward and I want to ask him where the fuck else he thought it would be, but I don't. Asshole.

"Yeah," Dr. House says and the little tiny light of joy in those glaciers is gone, and they're all dim again. Like jewels in the dark; dully shining.

"Last I checked, you still had two legs," Dr. House's dad goes and Dr. House picks up his cane and shows it to him.

"Actually, three," he goes in a fake-assed cheery voice.

Dr. House's dad sighs then and says, "You know what your problem is, Greg?"

And Dr. House gets this look like, _No, but you're probably going to tell me._

And I sigh, myself, because if this is the shit he gets, then I wouldn't be too happy my parents were coming if I were him, either.

"You just don't know how lucky you are," Dr. House's dad goes and whatever light might have been left in his eyes is gone as he sits back and breathes deep, staring real hard as his father goes back to eating.

"So, America, what brings you to Princeton?" Dr. House's mom asks to break the icebergs floating in the middle of the conversation and I don't want to answer because it's my own private business, but the whole matter means that it's kind of her business, too, because in some kind of strange way _I'm_ hers, too. Like Dr. House is. Because I'm _his_.

Thinking about all this is getting complicated, but it feels a bit nice because I haven't had anybody other than Brooklyn for family in a real long time. And complicated is better than nothing.

"I've got some business to take care of," I say, not wanting to answer, but not willing to lie. Out of the side of my eye, I can see Dr. House and how he's trying not to frown. His right arm is moving a little bit and it makes me think he might be hurting right now and wanting to do something about it.

I think his mom and dad are why he hasn't. Jimmy was going on earlier about Dr. House not giving a shit, but that can't be true if he won't take his medication because his parents were coming.

"What's wrong with you?" Dr. House's dad asks, his voice sharp and hard all of a sudden. "You act like you don't want us to be here."

"John," Dr. House's mom goes, glancing at Dr. House and I look and see he's sitting back in his chair with that hard, dark frown back on his face. I can hear him breathing, real deep and slow and even. "Greg, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Greg goes, his voice soft even though his eyes slide shut for just a little bit of a moment.

"That's not true, Greg," his mom goes because moms know those things. She frowns, "You know that. Your leg hurts. You haven't had any pain reliever today, have you?"

"No," Dr. House goes after a second, that frown and those eyes getting deeper and harder.

"You need it," his mom goes, soft, and Dr. House's dad isn't even saying anything. He's staring at Dr. House, looking angry and confused at once.

"I was working. And you're here to visit," Dr. House goes, his voice quieter than anything and his mom bites her lip and breathes deep and even.

I look at Dr. House's dad who has my eyes and I'm real surprised to see this sad look on his face. "Let's go back to your office, Greg," he says and this time his voice is soft, too.

Dr. House scowls, then, and grips the table so hard we can hear it creak.

"No," he goes, hard and tight. "I want to stay here and eat dinner."

Then he finally picks up his sandwich and unwraps it, biting into it and taking extra long to chew.

Dr. House's dad is frowning, now, and he stares at Dr. House for a little bit before going, "Where's the head?"

I don't even know what all he means by that so I look at Dr. House, who points at the bathrooms off to the side of the room.

John House gets up and leaves and Dr. House sighs and his eyes widen as he goes, "Good thing we got _that_ cleared up," all sarcastic and I'd smile but it's obvious he feels like shit.

Dr. House's mom shakes her head at him and goes, "He's just trying to help."

It's all I can do not to snort and Dr. House looks at me and laughs a little bit.

"I don't need help," he goes and his mom goes, "I know. You're absolutely perfect just the way you are."

And she believes it, too. I know it.


	7. Seven

**Found**

_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is compounded with each passing Tuesday. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

SEVEN

Dr. House's mom and dad's flight out of Newark ends up being delayed until the next day.

Something about engine trouble.

Dr. House sighs and looks at me. "I suppose the hope that they would just leave was too good be true."

John House frowns because he thinks Dr. House is being mouthy. "You act like you don't want us here."

"What was your first clue, Alex Trebek?" I go before I can stop it.

Blythe House watches me for a long moment and I'm afraid she'll stare hard at me and turn her back, but then she takes Dr. House's hand and mine and leads us out into the hall. John watches us for a moment, mad, but Blythe looks at him and he turns to start looking at Dr. House's medical books where they are on the shelves against the wall.

"Where can we go?" Dr. House's mom asks, her voice quiet and soft and not angry.

Dr. House makes a face like he's thinking for a moment. He takes a deep breath, finally reaches into his pocket and pulls out an orange medicine bottle. He looks at his mom and then pops the cap, spilling the white pills out into the hand holding the cane. The one with the long, shiny line across the palm. He picks one out of the bunch and drops it down his throat.

"A touch of courage," he says real soft, before he puts the rest back and then leads us over to a door that says 'STAIRWELL.'

"Oh, Greg, don't," his mom starts to go, but Dr. House places his left leg on the first stair and then brings his right to join it. It goes on like that for a real long time, step-drag-step-drag, until we get to another door all the way up top that says 'ROOF.'

He turns and sighs, "Ladies first," opening the door and letting his mom go through before we follow.

Dr. House's mom has tears shining on her cheeks as she walks outside and the sky is still colored with blues of all kinds, the clouds stretched across like swatches of paint on a canvas so big and wide it feels like it could never be filled up.

"Don't cry, Mom," Dr. House goes, only his voice is the nicest it's been all day and he puts his free left hand on her shoulder as she shakes and trembles, trying not to.

"It's just that..." her breath hitches and those shoulders shake some more. "I remember...you used to run all over the place. Remember? I used to get a lot of exercise trying to keep up with your little self. You loved hide and seek."

And I'm surprised because I never knew hide and seek was something you could get from someone.

"Did you scream?" I ask, looking at him and he has this faraway, kind of happy look because he remembers and you know it's because he knows how nice it is to be found. How good those arms feel when they sweep you up and how fun it is to be tickled on grass.

"Really loudly," he says and his mom cries some more and he takes a minute to gather her up in his arms and kiss the top of her head. "And you'd stop doing something. _I see you, mister..."_

"_I see you over there," _I finish and my eyes are burning because he had someone real, real good to him, too, right from the start and she loves him, too. There's something cold on my face all of a sudden and I wipe across my eyes with my arm. My sleeve comes away kind of wet.

She smiles all watery at me and goes, "She adored you," and I nod because I know.

"So what happened here?" she says to him next and she makes sure to say, "I don't need all the gory details, Gregory. Just the basics."

"I don't know. I was stupid. We all were. You remember Dylan Crandall? Most gullible idiot on the planet?"

"Don't call people idiots, Gregory," she goes and frowns a bit. "I hate that your father ever used that word around you."

And Dr. House looks at me and smiles a little. "According to my mother, my father ruined me. I was her nice, shiny little sweetheart until Gunnery Sergeant John House got a hold of me."

And I laugh because I can tell.

"You're still my shiny sweetheart," she says, smiling a tiny bit. "If only less nice and much less little. Now finish."

Dr. House looks a little like he thinks she's got those two things mixed up, but he starts telling his story anyway. My story, only it's bits I don't even know.

"Okay, you remember Crandall and he had that girlfriend of his?"

She shudders then, frowning. "Mm-hmm."

"Yeah, well, everyone knows I'm the worst friend ever and she was the worst girlfriend ever--they had a fight once and it looked like they were breaking up. Or something. This was during our summer trip away from school to the Bowery. What I didn't know--I did some research this afternoon and called up some people--is that she'd been in and out of rehab since forever. The hardest thing I ever helped her 

score--with Dylan's money--was weed." And he snorted, then. "That was _nothing _for her. Anyway, they were broken up and I'd taken him to a bar in Manhattan for a night to help him feel better."

"Alcohol never makes things better, Gregory," his mom scolds. "You should know that."

But he disagrees. "It does, though...until the next morning, when the mountain trolls move in and start building that second story in the top of your head. Anyway, we both got plastered and Dylan came back and immediately crashed, happy drunk that he is. Well, you know me. I'm not exactly cheery when I'm sober. I'm evil as hell when I'm drunk. It's why I like to do it alone. Less damage to not care about repairing. Anyway, she came back later, and I was playing the piano—I don't know why, most of it's a blur—and she was...on something. For all know, it was her drug of choice."

"Crack," I go and Dr. House nods, and his mom gets this look on her face like she wants to cry only she doesn't. So he starts again.

"She was talking all this crap that I don't even remember. And I called her a whore and told her she was fucking Dylan over and she asked me why I cared and I told her I didn't. That's when she told me to shut the fuck up, then, and shoved me off the bench and onto the floor--"

Dr. House's mom puts a hand up. "Remember what I said about not wanting the details?"

Dr. House nods, frowning fast and biting his lip. "Yeah, I just know that it was the worst experience I've ever had. And it really sucks that it was the first time I'd ever managed to actually _score_ and she was _high_. And I was off my face on vodka--_Bully!"_ He adds in this weird sounding accent. "The only upside was the lack of hangover the next morning."

He blows a kiss to some invisible person. "Ah, vodka, how I love thee: let me count the ways."

"Wait, you were a _virgin_?" I ask because I just can't believe that.

Dr. House stares at me, annoyed, "Why is it that everyone thinks I just got all this ass in school? I was a medical student! I didn't have time! You take it where you can get it, damn it! I can barely get any now! Cuddy keeps holding out on me. I think I've done something to upset her. Now, if only I could figure out which one it was..."

"You have the biggest mouth on the fucking planet, man," I say, making a face.

"No, he doesn't," his mom says, but she's pale and I can tell she doesn't like what she's hearing but is prepared to see the mess through the end. "This is the most I've ever heard him speak. This is important. And don't swear--"

"America, it doesn't become you," Dr. House finishes and his mom gives him a smirk. He grins a little bit back and starts again. "And, yeah, this is of the most import," Dr. House agrees in this stuffy sounding voice, and he looks at his mom. "I wish I could lie to you. But I can't. It'd make this a hell of a lot easier. Anyway...she never told me she was pregnant. I'm surprised she didn't tell Dylan. She could've milked him dry with that crap. And he would have let her, the fool."

And then he looks at me. "So what brought you here? You obviously got along real well without me. And I was not-blissfully unaware of your very existence, but you're standing here and you've got my mouth and my hair and my dad's eyes and I don't know what all else. I know nothing about you that wasn't in your file. To which I'd like to add that there are _so_ many people I want to strangle and beat over the head with a clue-by-four right now. Too bad one of them is quite dead. Others, I'd like to...I don't know, do something nice for because they were obviously the only reason you're even half alright. But I don't believe in the afterlife, so I figure I won't get a chance to act on either impulse."

And flashes are going through my head while he talks. Of Liza and Brooklyn and Mrs. Harper and Ty and Clark Poignant and Fish and Wick and Marshall and Ernie and Dr. B. and Tom. But then there are darker ones of Browning and my mother and Lyle and dead Kyle and that apartment and Applegate and that tree outside behind the cool down room and matches and shoelaces and those flames dancing across Browning's bed...

_And it's cool and clean and snow everywhere..._

"America!" Dr. House's voice goes real loud and I fall back down to that roof and Dr. House and especially his mom are watching me. She's real afraid looking, like she's scared of me. Or for me, or something.

"You have a place you go," Dr. House says and it's not a question. "When something reminds you of your past. The bad parts."

But he doesn't touch me and that's good.

"You gonna start answering questions with questions now?" I go, real hard only I don't mean to. It just keeps happening sometimes.

"Nope," Dr. House goes. And he sighs. "One of the conditions of my returning to work was that I go to rehab and counseling. I went to one of each. I'm done with that crap. The guy wanted me to _visualize the healing._ If he wants, he can visualize this cane being his new boyfriend. I actually gave the counseling two tries. One for Lisa, one for Jimmy."

And at first I wonder who Lisa is, but then I remember what he said about Dr. Cuddy.

"But I went away both times, too. All these scenes kept flying through my head. And it wouldn't stop. I never went back. All I could see was Stacy telling me she was sorry. I didn't think she had anything to be sorry for. Then I woke up and half my leg was missing and I knew."

He closes his eyes, breathes in and lets it out in a burst. His eyes open. "The stupid American Psychiatric Association defines the dissociative fugue state as _the mind's separation of thoughts, memories, or emotions from the rest of the psyche_. I couldn't visualize any healing. All I can _visualize_ is the gaping _chasm_ where the right frontal portion of my quadriceps used to be. There's not going to be any healing from that. Nerves and muscle don't just mysteriously regenerate no matter who wills it to be so. So I don't want to hear that crap. Maybe that makes me defeatist. I really don't care. So I went somewhere else. I was born in Kaneohe, Hawaii and spent the first three years of my life in Okinawa, Japan. Those were nice. I remembered the blossoms from the trees and the way they blow off in the wind. That's where I went."

"It was nice in Japan?" I ask, pushing away the cold in my head and focusing on the ice of those eyes. My father's eyes.

He smiles then and it's the first real smile I've seen from him. "It was awesome. I've always spoken Japanese. It was one of my first languages."

"Languages?" I ask, not sure if I even want to know for some reason.

Dr. House's mom--my grandmother laughs, then. "He picks up languages like sticks."

"_Hai_," my father goes quietly, like a little grunt before turning and leaning over onto the wall in front of us to stare way down at the street below. But he smiles still, laughing a bit under his breath.

"What's that mean?" I ask, but I think I already know the answer. "Yes?"

"Got it in one," my father goes and I feel myself smile.


	8. Eight

**Found**

_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is compounded with each passing Tuesday. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), _Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle_, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

EIGHT

We go back down real slow, but it's faster going down than it was coming up. My father has taken off his jacket and placed it around my grandmother's shoulders because he doesn't want her to get cold. He ignores the fact that she already had a ladies' suit jacket and now he doesn't have one at all. My grandfather is asleep in my father's desk chair, his breath coming fast and shallow. His eyelids are flickering and I can tell he's in a nightmare even from here. He's muttering some shit, but I don't understand.

"Shit," my father goes, real quick and limps fast over to his desk and without a thought slaps my grandfather real hard across the face. Those green eyes that look like mine pop open and he sucks in a breath.

"Having fun, there, colonel?" my father asks, and I think he's teasing, only when I go to stand on the other side with my grandmother, who's crying for real now, his face is all anxious and the grip he has on my grandfather's shoulder looks like it should really hurt, it's so tight.

"Let go, Gregory," my grandfather mutters, trying to lean forward, but my father won't do it.

"Not until you tell me what year it is," my father goes, soft, and my grandfather scowls.

"2005, now let the fuck go of me," John House snaps, only I know he's more tired than angry.

My father sits back and settles himself down on his desk, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a little flashlight, which he shines into his dad's eyes.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Gregory--" and he tries to move out of the way only my father has that other hand back out, pinning his own father back to that chair and I never knew his grip was so strong because he's so damned skinny it looks like John House could snap his spine across his knee, he's so much bigger, but my grandfather doesn't move or can't because my father shines that little light in his eyes and says, "Follow the light, Dad," and my father moves the little flashlight from side to side all slow and my grandfather stares straight ahead and frowns so hard that it's easy to see where Gregory House got that angry face from.

"I'm _awake_, boy, now let go," my grandfather snaps real hard, but my father ignores him and pulls back each of his dad's eyelids and shines the light in to make the dark parts get real small. He sees something, I think, like he sees everything because he sighs deep and sits back, putting the light in his jacket pocket and his father frowns up at him and everything is real quiet.

"You all took your time," he grunts, making his shoulders real square and looking at us all in turn. I look at my grandmother to see she's not crying anymore, but she's still real sad.

And then I yawn because I realize I'm real tired. Dr. B's been easing me off the real serious meds because he figures maybe I'm getting to a point where I don't need to have my moods in check all the time anymore. But now I'm on this one prescription for a month so I can get some sleep on a schedule for once. I've only been taking it for a week, but it's working real, real good. I get relaxed, but not the bad kind. The good kind where it's like all you need is one little nudge and your whole self is deep in some real good dream.

The kind with angels.

My grandfather looks at me and I can tell he's wondering what the fuck I'm even still doing here and I look at my watch and it's almost nine o'clock.

"Don't you have a home to go to, boy?" he asks me and I roll my eyes because it's going to be real funny when he finds out who I belong to.

I look at my father, who's smirking a little bit and he chuckles and says, "Yeah, he does."

"You mean yours," my grandfather scowls some more, glaring at me like he's afraid I'm going to jack his ass or something.

"Yeah, mine," my father goes, and I can see my grandmother's got that love back in her eyes. Or maybe it never left and it was just hidden by the big fear that was just there a moment ago.

"What the hell's so goddamned special about him?" My grandfather's watching me now and I want to ask what the hell's so damned special about him only I don't because I know Blythe would get mad at me.

My father grips that cane and turns away to face the glass walls on the other sides of his office. "What's so _goddamned special _about him is that he's your fucking grandson, that's what."

And my grandfather's face looks like someone smacked him in the gut with a huge punching bag or something.

"My what?" he asks, all quiet. My father turns back around and runs a hand through his hair that's like mine.

"Your grandson. He's got your eyes and my mouth and hair and Mom's patience and who all knows what else. His name is America. He's twenty years old today."

And I look at him, surprised, because I never told him it was my birthday. He looks at me and gives me that little smirk of a grin again. "It's in your file, in case you've forgotten."

"Fuck my file," I whisper and his smile widens.

"I met him this morning when he walked into the clinic and lied to Evil Nurse Brenda about having some kind of sore throat. He's from New York, of course."

"Happy Birthday, America, dear," my grandmother tells me and I smile.

"Thanks, Mrs. House."

"Just think: almost legal," my father says in a wistful voice. "Then again, you've already been introduced to vodka, haven't you?"

I roll my eyes.

"You're sure," my grandfather asks, and you know he doesn't believe any of us. He looks at me like he just knows I'm running some kind of scam and he can't believe his flaming skeptic of a son fell for some idiot kid's trick.

Motherfucker.

I don't need this.

I'm gone.

...TBC...


	9. One House

**Found**_  
By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. The sorrow is no longer compounded with each passing Tuesday. Quotes utilized from America by E.R. Frank, various television shows (Without a Trace, the Discovery Health Channel, and Nip/Tuck, for instance), and movies (like _American Beauty_ and _Finding Forrester_).

**Summary: **"Who are you?" He asks, and I stare at those bright blue glaciers in that angry, hard face. "I don't know," I say, my throat tight and my palms slick.

**Rating: M **just to be on the safe side.

**Timeline: **Early S2, slightly AU for 'Daddy's Boy.'

**Spoilers: **'Daddy's Boy' and everything before.

**Universe(s): **House (_Steam _series-verse, in a way), E.R. Frank's books, Law & Order and its' subsidiaries (particularly CI) and—by extension, X-Files, _Cheaper By the Dozen_ (2003), the _Harold and Kumar_-verse, because I'm weird like that. Heh.

**ANs: **I decided to add the Bakers into the mix on a whim. I thought it'd be interesting, given what happens in the movie. Besides, it amuses me to think of House having lots of far younger cousins. He'd be the Baker dozen's king. It's also ironic, given the fact that Blythe House is played by Diane Baker. And I've decided that House's parents don't come to visit until a few hours later; after Chase has already informed Carnell's dad that he's going to die.

**WARNING: **For all of you hoping otherwise, Kutner and Kumar are _not_ the same person here. Just like John Cho's PoTW character from once upon a time is not Harold! Their appearances will be nothing like canon, I promise. After all, this is as AU as it is possible to be at this point. I'm going with it, hopefully you will, too.

**HOUSE - ONE**

He limps forward and slams his cane on his desk and hears his mother's surprised cry and her subsequent jump.

"Fuck you," he says, turning to follow America's -- _his son's_ -- footsteps out of his office.

"You want to repeat that, son?" his father's voice rolls over him, making his ears burn.

But he doesn't say anything. He just goes forward, shoving the glass door open and surging down the hall. He realizes that his son is less than half his age, completely -- _or mostly -- _healthy, and doesn't know the New Jersey area like he does.

He almost wants to laugh when he finds America standing in the park across the street from the hospital, if only out of relief.

He leans heavily on the cane, gasping for air and smiling ironically as America wheels around. The smile falls off his face as he realizes that America is crying.

"You're crying," he says. Toneless. And -- rarely for him -- without derision or mockery.

"I'm not c-crying," America says, clogged with tears and anger.

"Yes, you are," House points out in a stating-the-obvious tone.

"I'm not fucking crying," America snaps like if he says it hard enough, it'll be true and House sighs, gritting his teeth momentarily. He decides to let it go, focusing instead on his father's more bastardly tendencies.

"You're my son, whatever the fuck my father says," he intones, quiet, matter of fact. "And I have to tell you, I'm…I am not the best role model. I don't have the best habits. I take shitty care of myself, personally. I drink, I lie, I cheat. I break and enter and teach others to do the same. I take far more than the recommended dose, then wash it all down with scotch, which means my liver is likely to fail anytime in the next x years/months."

"You're a doctor," America says quietly, like that's supposed to clear everything up. "You help people."

House snorts. "Like that makes me so fucking special. There are doctors who kill people -- hundreds. You'd have to ask them why. The point is, kid, that I'm not sure that finding me was the best thing for you. I..."

America watches him and House sees his father's eyes staring back at him, only these are minus the usual condemnation and disappointment and are filled instead with hurt -- _so much of it -- _and anger. He frowns, knowing that his own eyes most likely look the same way.

"I don't want to hurt you like they all did," House murmurs, his eyes falling down to the grass below their feet. "You have no idea what a violation of my Hippocratic Oath it would be to fuck up my own son."

He chuckles ironically again because it's not as though he pays his oath any attention on most days and rubs his arms to warm them up because he notices the chill lining his sleeves and thinks regretfully that he should have had the presence of mind to grab his jacket back from his mother because it's cold out now.

House looks up again and sees the broken blood vessels in America's still tear-filled and reddened eyes. He looks behind America's black Hi-Top Converse-clad feet to see a puddle of what is obviously vomit.

"You've been sick," he says, frowning. "If you continue in your present state, you'll get dehydrated. Come on, we've got to get you something."

But America doesn't move.

House sighs again. "We don't have to go to my office. We can go to Cuddy's. She used to be a pediatrician. She's got a whole freezer of Pedialyte popsicles, _just in case_. You can have the grape ones."

He never imagined he'd feel the relief he does when America starts walking with him.


End file.
